


Under the Copper Beeches

by latin_cat



Category: Master and Commander - Patrick O'Brian, Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:29:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latin_cat/pseuds/latin_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young and old love ashore. A tale of two couples, and the relationships of fathers with their children - an alternate title for this could be “George Aubrey’s Very Bad Day”. Takes place after <i>"Blue at the Mizzen”</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“George! Oh get up, George, you infernal layabout!”  
  
George Aubrey growled and promptly rolled over to the other side of the bed, away from the shrill voice piping in his ear. He was home on leave from Admiral Dundas’ 96 gun _Serenity_ and, in the absence of naval discipline that required the piping up of hammocks at some unGodly hour of the morning, he was taking every opportunity to sleep in. He emitted another bestial snarl as he pulled the blankets over his head; however, this did him little good as only seconds later he found his pillow pulled from beneath him and he being soundly beaten about the body with it.  
  
“Brigid!” he cried, sitting up and glowering at the girl before him. “In God’s name, what are you at?” Then reflecting that by the clock on the mantle it was four bells in the morning watch and she was in her nightdress; “And what are you doing in my room?”  
  
“Are you that sleep-sodden?” asked Brigid testily, folding her arms so securing the pillow to her chest. “Papa and Uncle Jack are coming home today! Have you completely forgotten?”  
  
“No,” said George sullenly. Seeing as little else had been a topic of conversation at Woolcombe for the past two weeks it was fairly impossible for him to forget, even at this hour. “And give me my pillow back!”  
  
But Brigid was not to be deterred.  
  
“Oh come _on_ , George!” she cried once more, throwing the pillow at his head. “Hurry up or we’ll miss them!”  
  
Once she’d gone (cries of “Padeen, Padeen! They’re home today!” echoing along the corridor behind her) he replaced the pillow and lay down again, closing his eyes. However this early morning row had driven away any remaining inclination to sleep, and it was with great frustration that he rolled out of bed and stalked into the closet, only to find that the servants had not yet had time to bring up hot water for washing or shaving. An hour later found him sat at the table in the breakfast room, idly buttering a slice of toast and yawning profusely.  
  
Now twenty years old – passed for lieutenant and gentleman – George had transformed from a plump little boy into a rather lanky adolescent with a voice that rumbled at roughly the same pitch as his father’s; and much to his mother’s dismay, all in a very short space of time. As children the various offspring of the Aubrey and Maturin loins had breakfasted separately from their parents, but now they were grown all were permitted to sit together in the light blue room, decorated most tastefully in the modern neo-classical fashion. It was also the custom at breakfast for the post to be brought in for Mrs. Aubrey to read whilst the family worked its way sedately through the boiled eggs and marmalade. This morning a total of six missives were presented on the salver; three from business associates which Sophie opened, one for Fanny from that keen young gentleman occupying the next house but one, an invitation for George to dine with a beached shipmate on Thursday, and a rather large official envelope come by special messenger from Whitehall to await Admiral Aubrey’s return.  
  
“Here is a letter for your father,” said Sophie, putting the heavily sealed envelope to one side as Bessie, a robust old maid of near seventy, cleared the table. “That is a certain sign he will be home today if their lordships have directed a communication here.”  
  
“What do you suppose it says?” asked Fanny, clutching at her napkin in excitement.  
  
“Don’t be silly, Fanny,” said Charlotte curtly. “If we knew, their lordships would not bother to send a letter. I suppose it is something terribly important and vital to the security of the State, mother?” she said, turning to Sophie. “I have heard the Duke of Clarence has frequently sent Papa on highly confidential missions before now.”  
  
“I daresay you shall discover soon enough, Miss Charlotte,” said Bessie, warmly. Being the only member of the household at Woolcombe who was old enough to remember Admiral Aubrey’s breeching, Bessie was permitted to voice her opinions more openly than most; a privilege she stretched to its limit. “What with the Admiral home today. Lor, what celebrations they have planned in the village for his return! To think there will be music and dancing, and the ball here; that I’m sure the Misses will enjoy–”  
  
“How could we forget?” asked George spitefully, halting Bessie’s ramblings. “We’ve barely talked of anything else! And you Brigid, all your noise and caterwauling this morning; you must have woken the whole house!”  
  
Fanny and Charlotte made noises in agreement, directing significant glances at Miss Maturin. Brigid sniffed haughtily and pretended to ignore them, spooning honey onto her porridge whilst George turned away muttering.  
  
“Goddam feather-brained lubber…”  
  
“Now, master George, manners!” chided Bessie. George shot her a sullen look, but uttered a mumbled apology and proceeded to eat his toast in as defiant a manner as possible. Brigid giggled and Bessie shook her head wearily, sighing as she carried the breakfast tray out of the room. Sophie tutted disapprovingly and returned to her letters.  
  
“Really, George! What have I told you about using naval expressions at the table?”  
  
“Sorry, mother.”  
  
“I honestly do not know what has got into you recently. Are you not happy that your father is coming home today?”  
  
George was tempted to answer back in the negative, but he had long ago learnt that arguing with his mother only led to feelings of guilt and awkward apologies at dinner; in the light of which it was best to quietly submit. He chose to merely shrug his shoulders (a continental trait adopted during the last war, the use of which continually frustrated his elders) and concentrated on finishing his toast. The incident might have ended there if it were not for the fact that as George was reaching for the coffeepot, there came the sound of horses’ hooves and a carriage coming up the drive. Turning seventeen had not cured Brigid of, at times, bouts of infantile excitement, and at the sound of the approaching vehicle she sprang from her seat, knocking George’s arm in such a manner that the scalding contents of the pot emptied itself into his lap, causing him to cry out such a disgusting oath that made his mother exclaim “George!” and his sisters stop their scandalised ears.  
  
By the time the mess had been cleared from the breakfast table and George had escaped his thorough berating to change his breeches and see to any injury – fortunately the more vital areas had escaped the worst of the steaming-hot tide – the carriage had already been standing in the courtyard for five minutes; the horses led away and the first of the baggage unloaded into the hall, closely supervised by Sophie and an exceedingly shrewish Killick.  
  
“Preserved Killick, how good to see you!” cried George, relieved to behold such a sobering sight as Killick in a temper. “I hope I find you well?”  
  
“Well enough, sir,” said Killick, grudgingly. It was difficult for him to resist the urge to call Mr. Aubrey the Younger ‘Master George’; although the fact that George was now an officer and his superior automatically meant greater deference was called for.  
  
“And how is the Admiral, Killick? I trust his mission was a success, judging by what the Gazette had to say.”  
  
“That it was, sir,” said Killick, a hideous grin spreading across his weather-beaten face. “I daresay they’ll make him a baron for what he did to them slavers and pirates!”  
  
“Dear Killick,” said Sophie, affectionately taking the steward’s hands. “It is so good of you to bring us such news. But tell me, where is dear Jack? And Stephen, where is Stephen? Why have they not come in from the coach yet?”  
  
“They sent me along to give their apologies,” Here Killick screwed up his craggy visage and sniffed disapprovingly. “Sincerest apologies, ma’am, but the doctor had a patient in the village to attend to before they come up. An’ they said never mind ‘bout sending the coach back; they’d walk or borrow some horses from Barton’s instead. Walk! I dunno. Dressed to the nines they was, they’ll ruin their stockings…”  
  
“Dear me,” said Sophie, more to cut short Killick’s warmer mutterings than any mark of real distress. “How disappointing! But we shall have to be patient for a little longer; I think we can manage that. Killick, pray leave the baggage to Manson and go along to the kitchens; I should say you could do with some rest after such a wearisome journey.”  
  
“Very kind of you, ma’am,” said Killick, patting Sophie’s hands in the way a grandfather might pat the hands of a girlish granddaughter. “But I can’t be leaving them landlubbers to look after the Admiral’s and the doctor’s things, can I? They don’t know– Careful with that, you bloody b—; that’s the doctor’s chest, that is! He’ll whip your heart and lungs out quicker’n you can say Jack Robinson if he finds you’ve broke his creatures!”  
  
George moved silently between Fanny and Charlotte, placing a hand on the small of their backs and gently shepherding them into the drawing room, Brigid following close behind and shutting the doors after them to block out the continuing stream of profanity. Charlotte was the first to speak.  
  
“Well, Killick certainly has not changed at all.”  
  
“That old rascal is beyond change,” said George, but not unkindly. If there was one thing that united the Aubrey children and Brigid it was that they had all at some stage in their infancy been subject to the protection of Killick. In their own way they were all fond of the stubbornly crusty old seadog; even the prudish Fanny and Charlotte would have been devastated if Killick ever made any move towards civilisation.  
  
“How cruel of them to even consider delay in the village,” said Fanny, showing more disappointment than her mother. “Papa knows how anxious we are to see him!”  
  
“And why would they want to stop in the village now, in any case,” asked Charlotte. “When they know there is to be the ball tonight to celebrate their return?”  
  
“Why do we not walk down to the village and meet them there?” suggested Brigid. “That way we could all return to the house together. We could take Lalla!”  
  
Fanny gave her a look that was somewhere between surprise and horror.  
  
“Certainly not! It would be most improper.”  
  
“What is so improper about it?”  
  
“Oh, you oaf!” Fanny hissed. “You shan’t go running out after men; you’ll wait inside for once like a Christian!”  
  
“Christian folk don’t shut themselves up and let themselves grow fat ankles,” said Brigid sharply. “And I shall run after whoever I choose. Are you coming, George?”  
  
Both Aubrey girls shot their brother furious glances, daring him to go with the ‘little Irish brat’ as he had so often heard them refer to her. However, George had long viewed Brigid’s resolve as something to be admired not condemned; plus memories of his sisters’ bullying and a real disgust at their prudishness outweighed any natural affection he might have held for them in that moment.  
  
“Yes,” he said firmly. Turning away from the scandalized twins he offered Brigid his arm in the most gentlemanly fashion he could manage. “Shall we?”  
  
“You can’t afford to do that again,” George said quietly once they had walked far enough to be out of earshot of the drawing room. “Most still consider you a child, but you’re too near to being a lady to get away with it for much longer.”  
  
“Then I shall misbehave whilst I can,” said Brigid simply, her hands resting lightly on George’s arm as they walked down the gravel path past the stables.  
  
“You are a sow-headed brat, aren’t you Brige?” said George irritably. “I’m concerned for your reputation, as are we all.”  
  
Brigid rolled her eyes.  
  
“You are concerned, Aunt Sophie is concerned, Papa, Clarissa, Uncle Jack… Has it not ever occurred to you that the only one entitled to be concerned might be me?”  
  
George could think of a thousand replies to this; not a single one of which would have pleased Brigid, so once again he resolved to stay silent as they walked arm in arm. The route via the stable block was the quickest way to gain the village. Bypassing the Upper and Lower terraces, the two main sections of the formal gardens, they could cut across the unnecessarily long sweep of the drive, nip through the gate at the top end of the park and then follow the main road to Woolhampton. However, as they made to skirt the ornamental lake Brigid suddenly stopped, listening. George was about to ask what was amiss but she placed a hand on his arm, willing him to be silent. George looked around to see what could have caught her attention, but there was nothing to be seen.  
  
“Brigid, what are you at?”  
  
“I heard a voice.”  
  
“A voice?”  
  
“Yes, a voice. There; a groan! That was Uncle Jack!”  
  
George looked at her, puzzled. He had not heard a thing.  
  
“Are you certain?”  
  
“Yes, I am sure of it! Listen, there it is again.”  
  
George listened and sure enough he heard a faint groan, but undoubtedly recognisable as that of his father.  
  
“You’re right! Perhaps his horse threw him and he is injured?”  
  
“It came from the summer house.”  
  
Unconsciously joining hands the two ran through the undergrowth towards the light green edifice that sat at the far border of the gardens next to the lake, sheltered from view by a series of ancient and sprawling rhododendron bushes. It was the least frequented part of the grounds of Woolcombe, being both cold and dreary during winter and overrun by gnats in the summer. As they got nearer they heard another groan, longer this time and a strangled cry of “Stephen!”  
  
“Your father must be treating him in there,” whispered George as they crouched beneath the window, catching their breath. “He must have broken his leg or something and the doctor is having it off!”  
  
“George, how many times must I tell you?” Brigid hissed. “When will you realise that amputation–”  
  
She stopped short at the sound of another groan; only this one was of a completely different tone. They looked at each other.  
  
“That wasn’t Uncle Jack.”  
  
George shook his head. Then from within the summer house there came a gasp, but not a gasp of pain. It was a gasp that George had heard many times during his life at sea, but hearing it so out of context made his heart skip a beat. Not daring to breathe, George slowly pulled himself up by his hands so he could peer over the windowsill; what he saw made his jaw drop.  
  
“What is it?” Brigid hissed, seeing his look of disbelief. When George did not reply but continued to stare aghast, she raised herself up so she could peek over his shoulder. One quick glance was enough to reveal the situation to her, and she grabbed hold of George’s shoulders, pulling him back down again. Before George knew what was happening Brigid had taken him by the hand and they were running full pelt through the rhododendrons back towards the house. Only when they had put the distance of the Lower Terrace between them and the lake did they stop to catch their breath.  
  
“What did you do that for?”  
  
“They wanted to be alone; it was none of our business to be there,” she said hurriedly, taking a firmer grasp of his hand and dragging him back towards the house.  
  
“Wanted to be…?” George stopped stock still, despite Brigid’s best efforts and gazed at her incredulously. “Brigid, did you not see what they were doing?”  
  
“Yes,” she said mildly. “And it was still none of your business to stand at the window gawping like a fish.”  
  
“But, but it’s a sin!”  
  
“Is it any more of a sin than those women you’ve sought comfort from at ports across the world? And don’t say you haven’t,” she said, cutting off George’s attempt to protest. “You have been in the navy since you were breeched, and you forget I know what sailors are like as much as you do. With Heneage Dundas as an example I should be amazed if you were still innocent by the time you reached your twelfth birthday.”  
  
“Yes, but Brigid, you can’t hang for whoring!” whispered George urgently. “What they’re doing is… it’s wrong!”  
  
It was not so much the idea of sodomy that offended George; though that did form a rather large part of his objection. Though he would never dream of admitting it to anyone, he was rather a shy boy when it came to the subject of sex – Charlie Evans had had to all but push him through the door of the first ever brothel he had visited – and the sight of his sixteen stone father bent over a table naked, gasping and groaning whilst another man buggered him fair turned his stomach. He had long ago in his past visits to Woolcombe formed the opinion that no child should ever be subjected to the sight or even sound of their parents copulating, but this went beyond that; this was beyond wrong.  
  
“I was right when I said your father was having it off,” he mumbled, somewhat dazed.  
  
“George! Don’t be coarse.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
They had now come to a halt in the avenue of copper beeches that led from the Lower Terrace down to the lake. It was against the trunk of one of these trees that George leant, ungracefully sliding down till he sat sprawled on the ground, his palms over his face and fingers pressed into his eyelids with a deep sigh. Brigid sat down next to him, placing a conciliatory hand on his shoulder.  
  
“You are not going to tell anyone, are you?” she asked.  
  
George lowered his hands and turned to see the concerned expression on her face. He felt somewhat offended that she would for one moment think that he would inform; that he would even consider for a second condemning his own father to death. Not only his own father, a superior officer, but also Dr. Maturin who he held in the highest esteem as a man of learning and a trusted friend. No, he couldn’t; would never play the Judas Iscariot.  
  
“Oh, to Hell with it!” he cried, throwing his arms up in despair. “You know as well as I do that nothing can be done. If even so much as a hint of this were to get out they’d hang; or if by some chance they don’t hang then they will be completely ruined.”  
  
“Does anything have to be done?” asked Brigid quietly.  
  
George shot her angry look.  
  
“You seem remarkably unperturbed, seeing as we’ve just discovered that both our fathers are sodomites!”  
  
“We both know how much our fathers love each other; they have been best of friends since before they married. All the long, lonely nights together at sea when they shared a cabin, in fear of their lives every day of the War… Do you honestly think it is that surprising?”  
  
It made sense – save the ‘in fear of their lives everyday’, perhaps – and as she described it George saw everything fall into place. He had seen it happen before, of course; men who had been tie mates, alone and without the company of women for long periods of time, a purser with an unhealthy liking of the ships boys, those so often fatal activities in the goat house, flag captains or admirals who kept an unusually young and handsome retinue. Some relationships more destructive than others, or indeed some perfectly harmless.  
  
“I suppose you are right,” he sighed heavily. “But what I cannot understand is how. I mean, I cannot sit through a dinner at Heneage Dundas’ table without being regaled with tales of Lucky Jack’s conquests, and mother even accepts brother Sam as a matter of course. He stands up every Sunday at the break of the quarterdeck to read the Articles of War, Article XXIX included. He knows full well the penalties of what he practices, as does the doctor.”  
  
“It is not as if it is a case of destructive favouritism amongst the lower deck,” Brigid reasoned. “Nor one officer assaulting another. And as to the Articles of War, I have never known a single officer to follow the Articles to the letter; it is only if ever the ship’s discipline is endangered that the articles are taken into account – no, don’t try to deny it, George, you know it to be true. If every man-jack and officer were punished for drunkenness or swearing as the Articles dictate, why, we would have no navy left at all! Besides,” she said with something of a sly sideways glance. “Have you not ever been tempted in all your long voyages at sea to seek comfort in unorthodox fashions? Not even once?”  
  
“No,” George said firmly. “Not in the slightest.” Admittedly there was that one time in a moment of drunken desperation where he and Evans had nearly done something they would have regretted, but that did not count; not at all. He sighed again and rested his head on Brigid’s shoulder, wholly resigned to the madness of the universe. “But about them, you are right. Damn it all, Brige, why do you always have to be right?”  
  
Brigid wrapped an arm around his shoulder, resting a hand on his head to caress his short yellow hair comfortingly. She placed a kiss on cheek, then another, yet another after that and the caress became far less innocent; her kiss moving to place her lips just behind his ear. Startled, George pulled back slightly, giving her a surprised and somewhat confused look.  
  
“Brigid, what are you at?”  
  
Brigid did not falter in her caress, but she met his gaze; a warm look of affection in her grey eyes as her fingers started to unwind his neck cloth.  
  
“I really do not think, George,” she said softly. “That I have any need in the world to explain my actions.”  
  
“Brigid, I assure you my intentions towards you have never been anything but honourable–”  
  
“I know,” she said, cutting him short. “If they weren’t I wouldn’t be doing this now.”  
  
Brigid was much admired by both the young and older men of the county for her beauty and natural ease of manner; yet although she took after her mother in looks and spirit, her mind was completely that of her father. She was therefore not one to form casual acquaintances and in any other circumstance George would have considered himself a very lucky boy indeed; but in his mind Brigid was too much a part of the family, too close to being a sister to even consider… To tell the truth, he had considered it on some occasions, some rather lonely occasions at sea; but not here, not now, and in panic he grabbed hold of her wrists.  
  
“No Brigid, this is not right; it’s not decent! I won’t allow it!”  
  
Twisting her wrists free, Brigid cocked her head to one side and pouted in a childish fashion. As she did so, her eyes flickered downwards before she looked back up to his face and smiled in amusement. George followed her gaze and with horror saw the lie of his breeches was betraying him quite thoroughly. He flushed bright red in embarrassment.  
  
“That has nothing to do with it!” he protested, trying to wriggle away across the ground, but found himself pressed up against the tree-trunk. “It is… animal reaction. You are always talking about animals and instinct and all that.”  
  
“There has to be some trigger behind the instinct, George,” said Brigid. “Some desire either to run, to eat, to engage the enemy or mate. Instinct is not independent of Will.”  
  
George whimpered as Brigid slid his coat off his arms, caressing his chest as she did so. He should put a stop to this, get up and leave, tell her what a silly girl she was being and walk away – so why wasn’t he? Was it fear, caution, or desire? Perhaps it was all three. His mind was in such a whirl that he was finding it very hard to keep up with current events. He now noticed he’d lost his waistcoat.  
  
“Brige, please! We are the best of friends, we cannot–”  
  
“Papa and Uncle Jack are best of friends, are they not?” said Brigid, gently unlacing his shirt. “And their intimacy doesn’t seem to have spoiled their love for each other.”  
  
“But Brige–”  
  
“Hush now,” she said, and cut off George’s protests by pressing her lips against his in a gentle, lingering kiss. She pulled away and smiled. “There, is that better now?”  
  
George was so surprised that he found himself totally incapable of speech. The last words he was able to utter were “God help me!” in an unmanly squeak as Brigid’s nimble fingers made short work of unbuttoning his waistband and slipped inside the front of his breeches.


	2. Chapter 2

Stephen lay on his back staring at the ceiling of the summer house, contemplating a spider in her web whilst caressing his lover’s hair with one hand, smoking a cheroot in the other. It was a female spider, he was sure of that even at this distance; _Tegenaria domestica_ , a common house spider. Jack’s head rested on Stephen’s chest, his arms wrapped around his waist as they huddled in a contented heap on the floor. He had always wondered how a man like Jack who had spent all his life at sea could have such luscious hair; though it was quite grizzled now, barely any of the original yellow left. How silky, how soft and fine to the touch. Not quite as fine as the silk of a spider’s web, he mused, but all the same with its own special lustre. He sighed again, exhaling a plume of smoke and watched it swirl lazily in a shaft of sunlight.  
  
“Soul, I do think we ought to be going up to the house now; the ladies will begin to vex over our delay.”  
  
Jack let out a contented sigh and held the doctor tighter, snuggling against his bony chest.  
  
“Do we have to, Stephen? I’d rather stay here for the rest of the day.”  
  
“Shame on you, Jack Aubrey. Stay here whilst your beloved wife, who has not seen you for nigh on four years, worries herself grey in the drawing room? Stay here whilst your darling children long to embrace their father again? Stay here whilst the entire village lies waiting to celebrate the return of their dashing naval hero; the Admiral of the South Africa Squadron who in his travels met face to face and won the admiration of Bonaparte himself?”  
  
“Yes, I would.”  
  
Stephen rolled his eyes and deliberately exhaled a puff of smoke into Jack’s face.  
  
“Stephen!” cried Jack after much coughing. “Whatever was that for?”  
  
“I have found over the years that the only way to induce you to move when in this state of satiation is to cause you discomfort.”  
  
“Would you be so heartless as to have had me then banish me from your side?”  
  
“Never in life, my dear; but in all seriousness we should be going,” said Stephen, standing up stiffly, stretching and searching for his breeches. “Our imminent arrival was reported to the house some time ago – as you will recall our dunnage has been sent in advance – and there will be questions enough as it is when we come walking across the garden, creeping in through the stable block like a pair of undesirable tramps.”  
  
“I suppose you are right,” said Jack, reluctantly. “We have been away long enough as it is. Sophie will want to know who this patient in the village was as it is; I suppose you thought of that?”  
  
“No, the fact has not escaped me, brother. Do you take me for some scatter-brained booby who does not think his plans through thoroughly before he acts?” ‘And has not my very life depended on such carefully placed lies and counter-lies?’ he added to himself privately as he hauled on his breeches, picking up his shirt and pulling it over his head. It was whilst his head was still encased in the fine cotton that he felt an errant hand curl around his waist and Jack’s warm breath against his neck.  
  
“My dear doctor, you have neglected to tuck your shirt in,” Jack purred into his ear, his hands sliding down his back with the shirt tails. “Allow me to assist.”  
  
“Unhand me, you impetuous sea creature!” cried Stephen, swatting Jack’s hand away playfully. “No more of that, or we shall not leave this ghastly hut! Now put on your breeches like a Christian and let us lose not a minute.” And feeling very pleased with his use of the nautical phrase, he repeated the words for emphasis, as Jack tactfully hid his smile beneath his shirt.  
  
The morning mist had not quite burnt away from beneath the trees as the two emerged from the summer house. Jack’s grandfather had had the parkland created by the then fashionable Lancelot ‘Capability’ Brown, and it was only three generations of Aubreys later that it had come into itself to make the now quite charmingly picturesque view that presented itself before their eyes as the two men made their way up towards the house. However, the Admiral kept casting concerned glances at the doctor’s breeches, occasionally taking an anxious swipe at the left buttock, which his friend contrived to avoid. Before long Jack stopped in his tracks, scowling.  
  
“Stephen, if only you would let me dust your breeches down more thoroughly; they are shockingly dirty, I am sure Sophie will suspect.”  
  
“If you had given me more time to find a cleaner place to settle instead of pinning me down as soon as we stepped over the threshold of that dreary edifice you laughingly call a ‘summer’ house,” said Stephen peevishly. “I might not have ended up looking as if I had been rolling in a chalk pit.”  
  
“Indeed? I seem to remember someone almost dragging me down onto said dirty patch of floor in his eagerness to have me. Killick will not love you for having such dirty breeches.”  
  
“Killick is so rarely in a sweet mood with me that another scalding will hardly make any difference.”  
  
“Oh Stephen, will you not just–”  
  
The doctor silenced him by placing a hand on his arm. Jack looked at him questioningly, but Stephen’s eyes were searching the surrounding greenery, his head tilted slightly as if he were listening for something.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“I thought I heard something. Yes, there it is.”  
  
Jack strained his ears to listen above the birdsong, and sure enough there was a sound; soft, barely audible above the din, but instantly recognisable.  
  
“Oh that?” Jack said dismissively. “Probably one of the maids sporting with her beau…”  
  
But Stephen was off, disappearing into the bushes with the stealth of a cat. It took Jack a second or so to realise that he had gone, but when it registered with his consciousness he dived in after him with a cry of “Stephen, wait!”  
  
It did not take him long to catch up, as Stephen had stopped just on the border of the Beech Walk, motionless as a heron in a pond, peering intently through a gap in the rhododendron branches.  
  
“Stephen!” Jack gasped, breathlessly. “What are you at?” But the doctor motioned him to silence, beckoning his friend to come at look at whatever was in his line of vision. Hesitantly Jack did so, crouching down next to the Stephen, grunting slightly as he manoeuvred his bulk in the relatively tight space, directing his gaze to where Stephen indicated. What he saw before him was quite an unexpected picture indeed. There was George leaning back against the wide trunk of one of the beeches, his glazed eyes raised towards the Heavens, his mouth dropped open and uttering soft groans whilst Brigid sat astride him, her skirts hitched up, her stockings exposed, riding George with steady rhythmic movements. From their vantage point they could not see her face, but Jack could certainly hear her gasps and moans, and each and every one of them appalled him beyond words.  
  
On his part, Stephen was currently contemplating how much George looked like Jack when so close to being brought to completion. The resemblance was, indeed, quite remarkable. He could not help but wonder if Jack had ever engaged in similar activities here in his youth; perhaps with the dairy maid before the unforeseen event that made her his step-mother.  
  
Suddenly George cried out, clutching convulsively at Brigid’s hips and thrusting upwards, urging her to move faster on him as he came. At almost the same instant Brigid gasped and threw back her head. Jack felt Stephen’s hand on his elbow drawing him gently away from the scene of their offspring’s offence, and they emerged back out onto the Lower Terrace.  
  
“Well… I would never have believed it…” he murmured, somewhat dazed.  
  
“Indeed, neither would I,” said the doctor, curtly.  
  
“It’s unbelievable!”  
  
“Quite – disgraceful of you, creeping about the bushes, spying on young couples!”  
  
Jack turned and gaped at Stephen.  
  
“Me? You were the one who darted off into the bushes like a ferret after a rabbit!”  
  
“You make me out to sound like a dirty old man.”  
  
“Well, does not creeping about in the bushes leering signify a dirty old man?”  
  
“Oh? And do you profess not to be, Jack Aubrey? I saw you eyeing Miss Fothringby’s neckline when we dined at the Governor’s in Simon’s Town.”  
  
“It was a damned fine neckline,” murmured Jack sullenly. “And in any case it is a completely different thing, looking at girls’ necklines; it don’t signify at all. Besides, it was you who made me look in this case – and I still say I am shocked. A most awkward turn of events; we shall have to speak to them.”  
  
“Do you believe there is any need to talk to them?”  
  
“Of course! George must know that such behaviour is unacceptable; that such a thing cannot be tolerated whilst he is under my roof.”  
  
“Joy, are you not in danger of becoming some sort of hypocrite? I seem to recall several occasions in the past where you were not the most shining example of virtue in these matters.”  
  
“Yes but damn it, Stephen, she’s your daughter! I don’t know about you, but I for one would have expected better of George.”  
  
“From what I have seen I hardly think George is to be held entirely responsible for the incident, taking into account Brigid’s dominant position and being aware of George’s deep respect for her. And besides,” he said, grinning mischievously. “You of all know the futility of dissuading a Maturin when their mind is made up.”  
  
Despite himself Jack briefly smiled at Stephen, but then forced his face back into a frown.  
  
“But they have known each other since they were children; they were practically brought up together!”  
  
“Joy,” said Stephen, gently laying a hand on his friend’s arm. “They are not brother and sister.”  
  
Jack’s heart sank.  
  
“I know, Stephen, but with us I sometimes forget… we are more married to each other than we are to our wives!”  
  
Though as soon as the words left his mouth Jack’s face reddened, a worried expression on his face as he saw Stephen pale. It was clear from the pain in his grey eyes that the obvious blunder had brought Diana to mind. Even now after all this time he still could not think of her without feeling a stab of regret in his breast. Still she held the power to wound him; even from beyond the grave.  
  
“Oh Stephen, I am sorry–”  
  
“Never fear, joy,” said Stephen, patting his hand reassuringly. “No, I was just thinking that Diana made a similar remark many years ago in jest about us carrying on as if we were married. Perhaps she spoke more truthfully than either of us imagined?”  
  
“But what I mean is – I am not saying we do not love our wives – it’s just for us it is, well, different.” Jack shook his head and gazed at the ground mournfully. “I mean, it is worse than if I were to carry on with Queenie!”  
  
By Queenie he meant the now-widowed bride of the late Lord Keith, of whom Jack had for many years been something of a protégé. General Aubrey’s rather hap-hazard approach to parenting meant that Jack had spent more of his short time on land with Queenie and her family than he had with his own, and therefore deemed her as good as a sister. Stephen regarded his companion’s open look of dismay thoughtfully, concerned that the incident disturbed him so much and that he might be tempted to do something rash. For that reason it would be best to push the issue further at present.  
  
“Perhaps,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I see the reasoning to your argument, and perhaps it might be a wise precaution; not to mention it shall give them a chance to explain themselves. Who knows? The incident may have been perfectly innocent.”  
  
“Perfectly innocent…?” Jack looked as if he was about to have one of Stephen’s long-predicted apoplexies, but the doctor cut him short.  
  
“When do you propose that we should speak to them?”  
  
“I am not certain,” Jack said, biting back on the words he intended to hurl at his friend. “Before the ball tonight, certainly; George will not be sober otherwise. Later this afternoon will be best.”  
  
“Must there be a ball tonight?”  
  
“I am afraid there must, soul. Sophie has been planning ever since she received the news we were homeward bound.”  
  
“Very well,” the doctor sighed. “So until then I suggest we do our best to behave towards our children as if we have not witnessed anything untoward. Agreed?”  
  
Jack gave Stephen a dubious look, unsure whether his friend was attempting to put him off the scent, but he saw no guile in Stephen’s pale eyes and reluctantly nodded his accord.  
  
“Agreed.”  
  
“Then let us say no more about it for the present. And now we must make haste, my dear, before Sophie sends out a search party.”  
  
They approached the house, talking quietly between themselves, coming from the north so as to enter through the servants’ quarters. However, when they were about four hundred yards away from the house Jack looked up and frowned.  
  
“Damn. It seems our entrance will not go unnoticed, brother.”  
  
“Why do you say that, my dear?”  
  
“One of the twins has a glass trained on us from the first floor. There – see how the lens catches the sun?”  
  
“I do. Which is it?”  
  
“For the life of me I cannot tell,” said Jack, squinting. “That is Fanny’s room, but with the girls that is no certainty. In her last letter Sophie said they have taken to swapping rooms without telling a soul in order to confuse the servants.”  
  
“In certain aspects of their behaviour, you have two quite odd daughters.”  
  
“Don’t I know it, my dear? Come, we might as well go in round the front.”  
  
As they entered the hall the twins came bounding down the stairs, the one carrying the telescope leading the way whilst the other, scolding, followed on.  
  
“Papa!” The first twin launched herself into her startled father’s arms, “Oh, I saw you through your Harrison telescope! I know you don’t like us touching your optics, but George showed me how to use it properly, and he said he was sure you wouldn’t mind.”  
  
“Did he?” Jack asked, receiving the kiss to his cheek with good enough humour as he desperately tried to remember which one of his daughters this was hanging round his neck.  
  
“Don’t be so silly, Fanny!” the other twin chided, who by process of elimination must have been Charlotte. “I did try to tell her not to, Papa; that George is a feather-brained fool and you would certainly mind should it be broken, but she would not listen.”  
  
“Oh, Char, you are a cruel liar! You said nothing of the sort to me!”  
  
“Yes I did!”  
  
“You did not!”  
  
“Girls, for shame!” Sophie swept into the hall from the drawing room, a frown creasing her lovely brow which betrayed evidence of many similar frowns. “Your father has barely set a foot in the house and already you besiege him with your prattle!”  
  
She then turned and smiled, holding out her hands to her husband.  
  
“Jack, my dearest, I thought I had heard your arrival. And Stephen, dear Stephen, how wonderful to see you again! I hope the journey was not too tiresome?”  
  
“On the contrary, it was made all the more pleasant with the sheer anticipation of seeing you all again,” said Stephen, planting a brotherly kiss on her cheek. “My dear you look in wonderful spirits, the colour of your cheeks quite high and healthy, and hardly a grey hair to be seen! You age with such grace, honey.”  
  
“And you never cease to flatter me,” Sophie chided, poking him playfully in the ribs. “And I am certain that you have become skinnier since I last saw you! Jack, you have not been feeding him enough, and I will bet your linen is in desperate need of darning.”  
  
“You will not credit how much Killick has nagged him these past few weeks.” Jack shook his head sagely. “Been fussing like a wet hen and spitting like a tom cat trying to get him to dress properly for coming home.”  
  
“And quite unwarranted fussing it was, I can assure you,” Stephen said, glaring at the admiral. “Am I not a grown man? Am I not capable of changing my own linen so it is acceptably fresh? And what are a few holes? Forsooth, it is not as if the governor would have pulled down my breeches to check! Linen for all love…!”  
  
A little time later George and Brigid came in through the French windows of the salon where the family had gathered to exchange news and gifts. Brigid appeared as trim and neat as if she had just emerged from her dressing room, a youthful glow about her cheeks; however, George had something of a hangdog air about him, his short blond hair ruffled, his collar and cravat somewhat ahoo, and when viewed from the rear it could clearly be seen that his breeches were dreadfully grass-stained.  
  
“George!” Sophie stood from her seat on the couch, bustling over to him in a fit of motherly concern and disapproval. “Look at you, such a state! What have you been doing?”  
  
“We were walking along the Lower Terrace, Aunt Sophie.” It was Brigid that answered. “We were going to meet Papa and Uncle Jack, and George slipped and fell down the slope. It was ever so funny!”  
  
Judging by the expression on his face George thought the incident anything but funny.  
  
“I would have perhaps thought he would have let you help rearrange him,” Sophie said, frowning at her son as she brushed down his shoulders and straightened his cravat.  
  
“Oh no, he wouldn’t let me,” Brigid replied, and Stephen was certain he detected something of a sly twinkle in her eye as she spoke. However, any further reflection on the subject was forestalled as Sophie clasped her hands together and a small exclamation escaped her lips.  
  
“Oh, it completely slipped my mind! Jack, my dearest, there was an envelope that came for you this morning via special messenger; a direct communication from the Admiralty. Come into the breakfast room – it is still there – where you can read it and tell us its purpose. The girls have been restless with curiosity all morning!”  
  
The missive in question was duly found and opened, and the assembled company waited in silence as Jack read through the lines before him. After a short while his countenance brightened, and his weather-beaten features broke into a smile.  
  
“Well I never!” he exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. His eyes gleamed as he handed the heavy page of to Stephen. “There, brother; what do make of that, eh?”  
  
Stephen read carefully, lowering his tinted spectacles to see the letters more clearly, no change of expression on his face until he lowered the page, a smile tweaking at the corners of his mouth.  
  
“I believe our friend Clarence might be rewarding you for your care of young Hanson. In this day and age I do not believe the boy could have had a better start in the service, would you not say?”  
  
“Why, that must be it, Stephen! By God, Sophie; Rear-Admiral Sir John Aubrey of the Red – Baronet of Woolcombe, KB! Baronet, for all love! Sophie, my dear, you shall at last be addressed as Lady Aubrey! Sir John and Lady Aubrey! Haha!”  
  
“Oh how wonderful, dearest!” Sophie said, beaming as her husband’s delight shone bright in his blue eyes. “Though I am sorry you fell short of the Lords. You deserved to be an Earl at least for all your long years of service – at least!”  
  
“Oh, who cares about the Lords? Load of useless old fossils they are; I am not sorry I missed out on that! But we shall at last have a coronet on our arms, and you shall be ‘Sir George’, my boy!”  
  
“My congratulations, sir,” said George demurely, holding out his hand to his father. Jack’s joy momentarily dimmed as he recalled the upcoming confrontation he must have with his son, but he took George’s hand and grasped it firmly.  
  
“Thankee, George. Thankee.”  
  
“And my felicitations to you too, my dear,” said Stephen delicately. “I know how much you sailors long to bedeck yourself with ribbons and baubles.”  
  
“Why bless you, Stephen,” Jack said, smiling at his friend warmly. “Bless you, indeed!”  
  
As the admiral laughed heartily and the doctor regarded him affectionately, George and Brigid silently exchanged a covert glance.  
  
\---------  
  
The rest of the day passed quite uneventfully, and much sooner than he would have liked five o’clock struck on the longcase clock in the hall, its chime echoing as ever through the east wing of the house. Stephen took a steadying breath as he knocked on the door of Brigid’s dressing room, and entered when he was bidden.  
  
Brigid was seated at her dressing table, putting the final touches to her attire for the evening. The fashions of the day dictated that pastels were desirable, younger ladies with exceedingly low necklines, and Brigid that evening had decided to don a very delicate green and gold affair, set off by a string of diamonds and pearls that had belonged to her mother. The colour suited her well, and the diamonds complemented the paleness of her eyes against the comparative darkness of her light bright hair.  
  
At the sound of the door closing Brigid turned on the stool and, seeing her father, she smiled.  
  
“Why hello, Papa. Are you not dressed for the ball yet?”  
  
“No, I am not.” Stephen felt a slight pang in his heart as he regarded his daughter. It was clear, both physically and in the way she presented herself, that she was no longer a little girl. He had been away too long, and returned to find his fairy child grown into a maid.  
  
“You should hurry and do so – before Killick comes hunting you down, neck cloth and curling tongs at the ready.”  
  
“Later, my dear… but before that there is something I need to discuss with you; something important.”  
  
“But what?” Brigid’s smooth brow wrinkled, her concern all too clear. “What is it, Papa? Has something bad happened?”  
  
“No, no nothing bad. Nothing _essentially_ bad.”  
  
“Then what? Please, tell me!”  
  
“George.”  
  
Brigid’s frowned deepened to one of confusion.  
  
“George?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Stephen cleared his throat awkwardly, readying himself to broach this most distasteful subject, and began to speak hesitantly.  
  
“Do not think for a moment that I have not noticed you seem to hold a significant affection for George. It is to be expected; you were children together, brought up in each others’ company by near enough the same family. To be true, I would perhaps be more worried should you not look upon him with affection! Yet I worry, perhaps, that you may allow him… too much familiarity.”  
  
Brigid’s frown of confusion merely deepened.  
  
“What are you saying, Papa? Please, be plain.”  
  
“That this afternoon whilst walking back to the house through the gardens the Admiral and I were alerted to your presence in the Beech Walk. With George.”  
  
A silence fell upon the room. And judging by the look a cool serenity that Brigid schooled her face to, Stephen knew he need not say any more; just kept his own gaze levelled with hers. Had Jack Aubrey been there at that moment he would have recognised the look that Brigid had adopted as one that the doctor himself used, and the old Admiral would have also recognised in that expression a potential storm on the horizon.  
  
“But surely, Papa,” Brigid said finally. “You cannot object to George in himself?”  
  
“Oh no,” Stephen replied. “Not in the slightest, my dear. A finer young man you will be hard-pressed to find.”  
  
“Then what is it that you object to?”  
  
“Honey, such activities are not to be undertaken lightly, especially by a young woman such as yourself. Do you recall nothing from our studies of the copulation of _Oryctolagus cuniculus_?”  
  
“I recall everything, Papa, and I have not undertaken this lightly. I intend to marry George.”  
Stephen hung his head in a thoughtful silence and took a few paces back and forth in front of the fireplace.  
  
“Has George proposed to you?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then how can you be certain that he will be open to matrimony? He is so very young – as are you – and some young men tend to feel trapped, suffocated by the prospect of early marriage. Remember also that he is a sailor and, like your mother and dear Aunt Sophie, you should be denied your husband for long periods of time. There shall always be the fear of his being lost at sea, and you widowed so young!”  
  
“I know all this, Papa,” Brigid said patiently. “Have I not dreaded the loss of a father all these years? I shall be able to wait for a husband.”  
  
It was true. Stephen knew it to be; perhaps better than most. Indeed, as he was increasingly finding women had a far greater sense of endurance than men in matters of the heart. They bore sorrow, heart-break, happiness and fortune with the same fortitude year in, year out, whilst they waited upon their fathers, husbands and brothers for the turn of their fate. Sophie had done so for many long years… and now it seemed Brigid would willingly do the same.  
  
“Though how did it come about for you to be straddling George?”  
  
Brigid turned her head away slightly to look at the carpet. Stephen frowned.  
  
“Were you planning this? Did you seek to entrap him? How long have you been planning to get him at a disadvantage?”  
  
“At first he was reluctant, but very swiftly he started to harbour different sentiments.”  
  
“I am ashamed! I did not bring you up to prey on defenceless Aubrey men.”  
  
Brigid frowned at him again, a look of severe doubt on her face.  
  
“I hardly think George defenceless, Papa.”  
  
“You would not, would you? Indeed, most would not; but from what I know of the men of the Aubrey family, the Old General included, they are quite at a loss when faced with attentions of a sexual nature. They are unsure how to throw off such an assault, mortally terrified of causing offence.”  
  
“And you have first hand experience of this?” Brigid questioned lightly, raising her eyebrows. The hint, however, went wide of its mark and Stephen merely nodded his head in resignation.  
  
“Yes – far too many times than I would care to recall. With Jack I believe it is a case of too kind and joyful a heart; but I am not so certain in the case of George. How did it come about?”  
  
“It was after we went to find you but couldn’t; we received the news that you’d stopped in the village, but it seems we must have missed you. We thought to head back to the house via the Beech Walk. George was somewhat disturbed –”  
  
“Disturbed? Why should he be disturbed?”  
  
“He worries greatly for Uncle Jack’s opinion of him. I think he was afraid that Heneage Dundas would have passed on that report about his dealings with the proprietor of a gambling den in Ceylon. I put my arm around him and kissed his cheek. I only meant to comfort him, I think, but once I had kissed him I thought I should like to do so again.” She tilted her chin up defiantly. “I ‘seized my opportunity’, as I am fairly certain that George never would have; he is too much of a gentleman.”  
  
Stephen nodded thoughtfully. Of all things he would never have described George as a ‘gentleman’ as such – no more than he would have applied the description to Jack – though he was not intimately acquainted with the boy’s character. As it seemed Brigid claimed to be.  
  
“A comforting caress, so easily becoming quite of a different nature,” he muttered to himself with a small smile. “Yes, they both work in quite the same manner.”  
  
“Things change, Papa,” Brigid said carefully, her pale eyes regarding her father earnestly. “So do our feelings. Friendship is the starting point for something more; so often we hear of friends whose affections strengthen from cordiality to love. How could the world condemn two of the best of friends, long acquainted and having shared many experiences from finding that their affection is in fact more than they first perceived? That it is in fact love?”  
  
“Undoubtedly, it is often so,” Stephen said. He did not see why Brigid made such effort to convey her sincerity – surely she would know him well enough to expect he would understand? “For childhood friends, it can be no other way. But tell me, when did you first experience this desire for George?”  
  
Brigid shrugged her thin shoulders, though in a fashion that did not displace her necklace. It appeared that her assurances of understanding had gone wide of the mark, and therefore she would choose not to refer more specifically to the activities in the summerhouse.  
  
“I don’t think I can trace it to any particular time. I have always liked him, and I suppose have always thought that I should like to marry him. He is kind, thoughtful, not self-righteous – qualities that not all men possess – though perhaps he is not overly bright; yet I think that actual desire has had very little to do with it until recently, considering he was not that desirable a boy to look at until he turned fifteen.”  
  
“That is a very cruel way of putting it.”  
  
“But truthful.”  
  
“Even so, it is possible to be overly truthful,” Stephen said shortly. “You are correct, in this case, that George did not until recently resemble anything near a responsible young gentleman; yet that is no reason to make such remarks. Some men do not have the best of looks or fashion, or manners; yet they do dream and wish for happiness, and quite often they are prey to the cruelty of females, as they so often wish for what they cannot have that a moment’s kindness withdrawn is enough to shatter him.”  
  
“Such men should be pitied.”  
  
“Indeed they should. Yet, to my mind you seem to be far more knowledgeable about affairs of the heart and, if I might say the physical affairs, more than I would have expected from a young lady of your age and upbringing – even with our studies of the _Oryctolagus cuniculus_.”  
  
“Oh Papa, you are blushing!” Brigid cried, laughing and clapping her hands together.  
  
Stephen had indeed turned decidedly pink around the edges and was fiddling with the fob of his watch. He cleared his throat awkwardly.  
  
“I only wondered, since you have never asked me about such matters, how it was that you came to wish to undertake such activities.”  
  
“You are correct, Papa, I have not asked you; but only because I did not need to. Mama left me a notebook she had written to give me on the occasion of my marriage, but since she left us before that it came to me early. It is fortunate Aunt Sophie did not find it amongst her belongings, else I should never have seen it.”  
  
“Indeed?” Stephen raised his eyebrows in curiosity, all hint of his previous awkwardness vanishing. “Might you permit me to look at it sometime, my dear? I have always wondered how women talk of such things amongst themselves; the experience would prove most enlightening.”  
  
Meanwhile, George’s interview in the admiral’s study was not going so smoothly. Both Jack and Stephen had spent long stretches of time away from their children, and although Brigid and Dr. Maturin shared a firm bond despite their separation Jack was rather uncertain how to go about discussing such a subject with his son. In the end he resorted to addressing George as he would a junior officer; which was exactly what he was, after all.  
  
“In God’s name what were you thinking, George? What if you have got the poor girl with child?”  
  
“Then I shall do the honourable thing, sir,” said George, his voice barely audible. “If that turns out to be the case, then I shall ask her to marry me.”  
  
“But what if she says no?” Jack paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, between his twin star and terrestrial globes; both presents a few years ago from his good friend William Herschel. “She is a very wilful girl – you know that better than most – and she will not be driven into anything against her will. If she don’t want to marry she will tell you where to stick your… that you will have no hope of her consenting; not ever! Oh, what a pretty kettle of fish you have got yourself in, eh? I would have thought I could have trusted you to behave properly.”  
  
George’s already blanched cheeks paled a shade more with the effort of restraining his anger; so much that he was almost shaking. He had thought his father to be many things, but to stand there accusing him for one transgression that was not even his fault when he and the doctor had been… It was the worst kind of hypocrisy, and it made him seethe.  
  
“I hardly think, sir, that you have been blameless in such matters.”  
  
“George, I will be the first to admit that in my life I have transgressed with many women. If it were one of our neighbour’s daughters or some chit of a farm maid I would understand; but Brigid? I thought you had more sense!”  
  
“And what about Dr. Maturin?” cried George, unable to hold his tongue any longer.  
  
Jack stopped pacing and turned to look at his son, and for the first time he saw the anger ablaze in his eyes. And it shocked him. He had never seen George this way, would never have expected to see such righteous indignation from a boy caught with his breeches down.  
  
“What about Dr. Maturin?”  
  
“I saw you today,” said George, his voice lowering to a deadly tone. “I saw you together in the summer house.”  
  
Jack’s eyes widened in surprise, before his face became a picture of fury.  
  
“That is none of your business.”  
  
“You let him bugger you.”  
  
“I said it is none of your business.”  
  
“You let him fuck you!”  
  
“George, that is enough!”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Enough!” Jack roared, so loud that it made the window panes rattle in their leading. Then in a quieter tone, but with a deadly edge he said; “What Dr. Maturin and I feel for each other is none of your concern, but my concern is that you do not stick your prick where it is not wanted and ruin a perfectly virtuous young girl’s reputation. Her mother was made unhappy by men willing to take advantage, and as God is my witness I swear I will not let the same happen to her daughter!”  
  
Considering George’s dangerous mood it would most likely do more damage than good if he were to come it across high-handed; no, no good at all. And in any case, beneath it all George was his son, and he felt it only fair that some explanation should be offered.  
  
“George,” he said slowly. “I think it fair to say you are not the first to have accused or at least suspected the doctor and myself of being more than intimate friends.”  
  
George’s eyes widened.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Never to official notice; but some have been given cause to think. Oddly enough the Admiralty encouraged such stories to be circulated about us in order to cover Stephen’s Intelligence activities; try to fool Boney into thinking that the only reason he sailed with me was because we were involved, as the French would not believe a man of… of such a persuasion would ever be employed by the British as an agent. It worked to some degree.” The Admiral paused again, and heaved a heavy sigh. “The thing is, George, unless we are caught by some indisputably reliable source, any gossip about the two of us will be dismissed as stemming from the Admiralty’s deliberate lie. And to be honest, what with my promotion and Order, both the doctor and I are now in such positions that no man with a shred of self-preservation would dare accuse us of sodomy - not to mention, with my reputation concerning women, he would be certified a madman and most likely committed.”  
  
“But how do you justify it? The Articles of War…”  
  
“I don’t try to justify it, George. Our, our relationship goes against everything I have come to hold sacred or in my natural inclinations, but I can find no answer for it, none whatsoever. I love him, I have always loved him; and that is all there is to it.”  
  
There was a silence.  
  
“And I love Brigid,” said George quietly.  
  
“So it would seem,” said Jack. He took a few turns about the room then said, somewhat heavily; “In a way I envy you George; that you and Brigid shall have what Stephen and I never can.”  
  
“What is that, sir?” asked George, lifting his head.  
  
“Why, to be married; to have your union publicly accepted! For us that can never be.”  
  
For a second George imagined his father and Dr. Maturin standing before the altar, the doctor dressed in a white satin gown and bouquet, a vale over his unnaturally simpering face and quickly redirected his thoughts elsewhere with an internal shudder.  
  
“But, you said Brigid may not –”  
  
“Oh, now you have made you reasons clear I change my tack entirely! Stephen will not mind, I am sure, as he thinks the world of you. One word of advice though, George; when you propose to Brigid, don’t make it sound as if it is to be a marriage of convenience. Cousin Diana would have accepted Stephen years before she did if he had gone about it a damn sight more tactful; and from what I know of Brigid, I should say she is of exactly the same stamp as her mother.”  
  
\---------  
  
Later that evening, when the rest of the household was caught up in the laughter and music of the ball, Jack and Stephen slipped away unnoticed to linger alone in the library, seated side by side on the settee before the slowly dying fire.  
  
“A very unexpected turn of events, my dear,” said Stephen, flicking the ash from the end of his cigar onto the Persian rug – once Mrs Williams’ pride and joy – there to settle in a squalid grey heap.  
  
“So it would seem,” said Jack quietly. He felt unusually weary; something of a depression of spirits. When he was younger he had loved balls, at one time lived for them; but now he was older he found he easily grew tired of them, choosing to sit alone and read or play his violin. “You know, I never thought that it would be the case – but I suppose, on reflection, it is the most natural thing in the world. Childhood sweethearts, and all that.”  
  
“And all that,” echoed the doctor thoughtfully. “Were they childhood sweethearts? I cannot recall.”  
  
“To tell the truth, nor can I,” said Jack, furrowing his forehead thoughtfully. “I cannot recall at all. But then again, we spent so much time away from the children; it might easily have gone unnoticed. I will not hesitate to admit I have not been the best of fathers.” There was a slight pause as Jack fidgeted before asking; “I suppose you don’t have any objection to George marrying Brigid?”  
  
“Oh no, my dear; not in the slightest. I take it you are not opposed to their union?”  
  
“Perish the thought!”  
  
“Then it is settled.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
They once more lapsed into silence, staring at the flames, watching the sparks dance and listening to the logs pop and hiss in the grate. Again Jack sighed and Stephen cast him a querying look.  
  
“My dear, what is troubling you? Unexpected though it might have been, I would have thought the union of our children would have been a subject for rejoicing; and yet here you are looking, as you would so eloquently put it, as glum as a gib-cat.”  
  
Jack looked up uneasily at the word ‘gib’. He sighed once more, fixing his friend with a concerned gaze.  
  
“I would that their engagement were the only surprise today. I am sorry, Stephen, I must seem so terribly low – and yet you are bearing up as if nothing had ever happened!”  
  
“What do you mean by that, dearest?”  
  
Jack looked at the doctor, a frown creasing his brow when he was met by a gaze of genuine curiosity.  
  
“Why, George and Brigid!”  
  
“What about them?”  
  
“They saw us.”  
  
“When?”  
  
“This morning; in the summerhouse.”  
  
Stephen showed no outward reaction to this new revelation save his pale skin blanched a shade more. He turned his gaze to the floor.  
  
“I see,” he said quietly.  
  
Jack’s worry deepened, concern clearly written on his face.  
  
“Brigid didn’t tell you?”  
  
“She did not. Though now, on reflection, she may have vaguely alluded to something of that nature between us. Clearly our choice of location was not as secluded as previously thought.”  
  
He sat quite still, drawing in and exhaling a puff of smoke whilst watching the fire die down in the grate before he spoke again.  
  
“Where does this leave us, Jack?”  
  
Jack paused a while to ponder before answering.  
  
“I am none too sure, my dear; hopefully with a happy ending. Most happy endings involve a wedding, do they not?”  
  
“But a wedding is by no means an ending, dearest; more of a beginning.”  
  
“Why, I suppose it is. Well, for them we must hope for a happy beginning, and for us –” Here he took hold of Stephen’s hand and smiled. “– we shall continue from where we left off.”  
  
Stephen gazed at his friend warmly, his heart swelling within his chest as he rubbed his thumb over the rough calluses of Jack’s palm. How different their hands were, how different their professions and their selves; yet here they were, still together as they had always been throughout two decades of love.  
  
“Even after all these years, joy, you can be surprisingly romantic.”  
  
Pleased with this description of himself, Jack placed a swift, daring kiss to the doctor’s lips.  
  
“Then I hope I shall continue to surprise you, my dear doctor, as long as we both shall live.”  
  
Stephen smiled back and squeezed his friend’s hand affectionately, his eyes shining.  
  
“Indeed, I would love that of all things."

 


End file.
